


The Adventures Of Steve Rogers, Newsboy Extraordinaire

by elle1991



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Artist Steve Rogers, Awesome Bucky Barnes, Awesome Steve Rogers, Best Friends, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Children, Courage, Cute, Cute Ending, Cute Kids, Death, Disability, Disabled Character, Epic Friendship, Family Member Death, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Friendship, Gen, Good Steve Rogers, Happy Ending, Kid Bucky Barnes, Kid Fic, Kid Steve Rogers, Muteness, Newspapers, POV Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Recovery, Sign Language, Social Anxiety, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 18:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15153170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle1991/pseuds/elle1991
Summary: 7-year-old Steve Rogers does not have many friends. The other children in his class think of him as the weird kid who can't speak. His next-door neighbour Bucky Barnes doesn't care about Steve's Selective Mutism though. He thinks Steve is awesome and is willing to fight anyone who says otherwise.When Steve gets a part-time job as a newsboy, it triggers a chain of events that no one could have predicted. A mystery robber is targeting local businesses, putting Steve right in the firing line. Will Steve find the courage within himself to save the day - and even find his voice?





	The Adventures Of Steve Rogers, Newsboy Extraordinaire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleblackbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackbow/gifts).



> I wrote it as part of the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018 and would like to thank some people for making the experience an absolute pleasure. Firstly, Rana, whose [artwork](https://ranaraeuchle.com/post/175503522507/steve-and-bucky-as-newsies-in-the-early-1900s) provided the inspiration for this story - you can see more of her art [here](https://ranaraeuchle.com/) and read her fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackbow). Secondly, the mods of the RBB, for running such a smooth and enjoyable event. And last but not least, my wonderful beta, [Sami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault), who proofread this story. Thank you all, you were all magnificent.

Steve Rogers was different from most other 7 year olds.

He did not have many friends. He did not have any brothers or sisters, and the other children in his class thought he was strange and would not play with him.

Apart from his parents, some of the people who he saw most often were the doctors. He was always being hauled to the doctor for some reason or another. He would sit on the doctor's colourfully-painted chair for child patients and listen as his mother tearfully explained the latest problem in Steve's long medical history.

_Doctor, he's not breathing properly. Doctor, he's always tired. Doctor, he doesn't speak._

The first two problems were attributed to asthma and anaemia, respectively. The third problem, however, proved much more difficult for the doctors to figure out.

The fact was, Steve  _could_ speak. There was nothing wrong with his language comprehension, hearing or vocal chords. When he was safely in the confines of his home, with his parents, he would chatter away perfectly happily. His speech within the home was perfectly well-developed for a bright 7-year-old boy.

As soon as he stepped outside the house, however, or whenever anyone other than his parents was within earshot, he became mute. It had been the case for as long as Steve could remember. For the first few years, his parents had not thought anything of it, thinking he was simply shy. It was only when he started school and remained silent all through the school day that they had realised something was amiss.

That evening after his first day of school, his parents had told him off for not speaking to the teachers or any of his classmates. He had burst into tears. It was not a choice, he told his parents; speaking was simply physically impossible outside the little bubble of their family. Whenever he tried to speak – and boy, did he try – it felt as though an elephant were sitting on his chest, crushing him under the weight of an inexplicable panic. The more he tried to force out the words, the heavier the elephant became, and the more impossible it became to make even the tiniest sound.

His mother had taken him to the doctor that very evening, seeking answers for her son's bizarre affliction. The answer had not been an easy one to come by. For months, he had been passed from doctor to doctor, specialist to specialist, until finally he was referred to a child psychiatrist. 

He had been diagnosed with _aphasia voluntaria_ , an acute childhood anxiety disorder characterised by an inability to speak in specific social situations. The psychiatrist, a sympathetic woman in her 40s, preferred the nickname Selective Mutism. It was like stage fright, the psychiatrist had explained, except much broader. Steve felt safe enough within the family home to speak to his parents, but around other people his social anxiety took over, forcing his voice into muteness. Like an actor frozen with fear under the glare of the stage lights and the anticipation of the waiting audience, Steve's voice failed him under the weight of that overwhelming pressure whenever other people were around.

His mother had gone into panic mode. For several weeks after his diagnosis, she had tried to force him to speak. She had shouted at him and sent him to his room, and the mood in the house had been fraught and miserable.

It was his father who had finally put an end to it. One evening, as Steve's mother had been shouting, he had got up and put his foot down.

"Steve will speak when he's ready," he had said. "Trying to force him isn't doing anything apart from making everyone upset."

That had been several years ago. Steve was thankful that his mother no longer tried to make him speak. He would catch her sad expression though, sometimes, when she would drop him off at school and he would not talk to the other children, or when they went out shopping and he would not reply to the shop assistants who would cheerfully say hello.

Steve was known everywhere as that strange boy who could not talk, and that kind of boy was not popular. That was why he did not have many friends.

In fact, he only had one friend: Bucky Barnes.

Steve and Bucky were next-door neighbours and best friends. At 8 years old, Bucky was one year older than Steve. He was extroverted, cool and popular. He also, for some reason no one could quite figure out, absolutely  _loved_ being friends with Steve. Bucky would knock on the Rogers' door every day after school without fail, a huge smile on his face as he begged to play with Steve.

Bucky did not judge Steve for his Selective Mutism. He did not think Steve was strange. He always treated him with respect and watched carefully when Steve would communicate non-verbally through facial expressions or sign language.

When Steve's father had first explained to Bucky that Steve's Selective Mutism was like an elephant sitting on his chest, Bucky had simply bounded over to Steve's side and declared that they would fight the elephant together. Steve had been so overwhelmed with happiness that he had jumped on Bucky to give him a hug, causing them both to fall over, much to the adults' amusement.

A year ago, when Steve had been referred to a sign language tutor to help him communicate, Bucky had gone along too, thrilled and excited to learn a new way to communicate with his best friend. Now, they were both fluent users of American Sign Language, and could communicate easily and effectively.

Steve loved to play with Bucky. They were constantly inventing new games together and having fun. Most of all though, Steve loved the fact that Bucky treated him like a normal boy. Perhaps it was because they had grown up living next door to one another, but many times Bucky seemed unaware that Steve was different.

Bucky delighted in the fact that Steve was a boy who would play boy games with him. Much though he loved his sisters, he had no real interest in playing with their dolls, and they had no interest in his more rough-and-tumble games. In contrast, Steve loved those games. Sometimes, they would pretend to be soldiers: Steve's nickname was Captain Rogers and Bucky's was Sergeant Barnes.

Every time they saw one another, although their games might change, their greeting remained the same. Bucky would grin and say, "Hey, Steve!", and Steve would smile and sign  _hello_. The greeting ended with a secret handshake.

 

* * *

 

Steve was in Maths class when it happened.

He was sat at his desk, hunched over his book as he scribbled down his answers, when a knock at the door made the class look up. Steve's blonde fringe flopped into his eyes as he watched the secretary walk in and whisper something to the teacher.

The teacher's eyes went wide with alarm, swivelling in Steve's direction. He stiffened under the attention, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs as the teacher pointed in Steve's direction, nodding as she whispered something to the secretary. The secretary approached Steve's desk, smiling kindly at him as she crouched down to his level.

"Hey, Steve," she said. "Put your things in your bag. You've got to come with me to the Principal's office."

Dozens of questions exploded in Steve's mind, his brain scrambling to understand why the Principal would want to see him. With trembling hands, he stuffed his workbook and pencil-case into his bag, before sliding out of his seat. Concentrating on keeping his legs from giving way underneath him, he followed the secretary out of the classroom, the back of his neck burning under the stares of his classmates.

The secretary gave him an encouraging smile as they walked in silence through the empty corridors. Steve caught snippets of conversation as they passed other classrooms, his bag thumping against his legs with each step. His hands were trembling, his forehead sweating as his imagination ran wild, trying to think of scenarios that would require a trip to the Principal's office.

He did not think he had done anything wrong recently. He racked his brain. The previous week, Bucky had helped him with his homework – that did not count as cheating, surely? A frisson of fear passed over him; he did not want Bucky to get into trouble.

They came to an abrupt halt as they reached the Principal's office. Steve stared up at the imposing black door, his stomach flipping with nerves as the secretary pushed it open and gently ushered Steve inside.

He entered the Principal's office, stumbling slightly as he absorbed the scene in front of him. The first thing he noticed was that the Principal did not look cross. If anything, the man looked overly kind and welcoming. The second thing he noticed was that the Principal was not alone. Sat in a chair at the side of the room was Steve's neighbour – not the Barnes family, but the neighbour on the other side, an old woman who smelt like cabbage, Mrs. Miller. Steve shrank away in fear. He did not like Mrs. Miller.

"Hello, Steve," said the Principal, giving him a gentle smile. "Your neighbour will be taking you home, now."

_What's going on?_

The question sounded loud and clear in Steve's head. He swallowed, his lips puckering and his diaphragm moving in preparation for saying the words out loud. He was going to speak, he was going to ask the question, he was going to–

The elephant, forever an unwanted visitor, lumbered in and settled down on Steve's chest. The air was pushed from his lungs under the weight of it, escaping silently from his lips as his tongue turned to lead, his throat closing up against his will. 

His eyes filled with tears as panic rose in his chest. He could not speak. He did not want to go home with Mrs. Miller. He wanted to know what was going on. A small whimper escaped his mouth as he began to tremble.

"Oh yes," said the Principal, reaching for a sheet of paper and a pencil and putting them down in front of Steve. "I forgot."

Steve reached out for the pencil. As clearly as he could, he wrote:  _Where is my mommy?_

The Principal read his wobbly handwriting.

"She's at home," he said. "She can't collect you today. That's why your nice neighbour is here."

Steve looked over at Mrs. Miller, his lower lip sticking out in a pout. She was not the nice neighbour. She was the scary neighbour who talked to herself and tried to listen to the Rogers through their wall. The nice neighbours were the Barnes parents, who treated him like an extra son and had even learnt some basic sign language in order to communicate with him.

He picked up the pencil again and wrote a second line:  _Why?_

A pained expression flashed across the Principal's face, his mouth twitching for a brief moment before his neutral mask slid down once more.

"Your mother will explain when you're home," he said quietly.

With a forced smile, he turned towards some paperwork on his desk, effectively ending the conversation. Mrs. Miller shuffled forwards and grabbed hold of Steve's hand, tugging him out of the Principal's office. Steve felt himself go rigid as she pulled him along, seizing up with fear as they hurried out of the school together.

They walked along in silence, the atmosphere becoming increasingly awkward with every mute second that passed. Steve cringed internally, despairing at the way time seemed to drag by at a snail's pace. After several minutes of silence, Mrs. Miller began talking about her cats, explaining in great detail the types of food they liked to eat and how they would bring her gifts during the night. Thankfully, she did not seem to be expecting any kind of response.

Steve hurried along by her side, nodding at all the appropriate times, as he struggled to keep his acute anxiety from showing on his face. He hated being with unfamiliar people. It made him want to run away, his heart hammering in his chest and his stomach churning and making him feel nauseous. He bit his lip, desperately hoping he would not be sick.

After 15 minutes that felt much longer, they arrived at their block of flats and climbed the steps up to their floor. Mrs. Miller knocked on the Rogers family door and waited with a wide smile on her face. Steve's mother came to the door, pulling Steve to her side the moment she saw him. Steve let out a quiet sigh of relief, burying his face in her dress and wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug.

"I've brought Steven back," said Mrs. Miller, somewhat unnecessarily.

Steve's mother forced a smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Miller," she said, before closing the door.

She dropped to her knees, pulling in Steve for a proper hug as she stroked his hair gently. Steve hugged her back, confused but not displeased by the unexpected show of affection. She let out a shuddering breath, leaning back and kissing Steve's forehead.

"I love you, sweetheart," she said. "I love you so much."

To Steve's horror, she began to cry, fat tears leaking down her cheeks. Steve watched, helpless, as the strongest person he knew broke down in front of him. Her face was blotchy, her body shaking as she held onto Steve's shoulders tightly. He listened as Mrs. Miller's footsteps faded away and out of earshot, the elephant on his chest finally stepping away and allowing air into his lungs once more.

"I love you too, Mommy," he said. "What's wrong? Why are you sad?"

His mother took a deep breath, wiping her face with a handkerchief. Without a word, she stood up and led the way to the living room, sitting down on the worn-out sofa and patting the space next to her. Steve jumped up and snuggled beside her side, resting his head on her arm and looking up at her. She stroked his fringe out of his eyes, another tear slipping down her cheek as she looked at him.

"You have your Daddy's eyes," she said softly, before biting her lip and re-composing herself. "Steve... After you went to school this morning, Daddy didn't feel so good."

Steve waited patiently for her to continue. When she did not, he gave her arm a gentle headbutt.

"Like when I'm sick?" he asked.

"Yes, honey. Like that, but worse," she said. "He had to go to hospital."

Steve smiled. He knew all about going to hospital. He had been there dozens of times when he had caught some virus or another and been too sick to stay at home. The hospital was a fairly pleasant place, with toys to play with and nice nurses who would look after him without expecting him to speak.

"We should take his favourite pyjamas and read him a bedtime story," said Steve. "Like you do when I go to hospital."

Instead of being cheered up by his idea, his mother began to cry afresh, pulling Steve closer to her as she wrapped her arms around him tightly. Steve clung back to her, frightened by her bewildering reaction.

"No, baby," she said. "Daddy's not coming back."

Steve pulled away, confused.

"Daddy's living at the hospital now?" he said.

His mother shook her head, her face crumpling as she wiped away tears. For a few seconds, she closed her eyes, tears clinging to her eyelashes as she exhaled shakily.

"No," she said finally. "Daddy's living in Heaven now. He's an angel watching over us. He loves us very much, but he had to go."

Steve sat in stunned silence, lost for words in a way that had nothing to do with his Selective Mutism. As the words sank in, his chest began to heave, tears spilling down his cheeks as he curled in on himself with a sob. He would never see his father again. His chest ached with a pain he had never felt before, hurting in a way that felt both physical and not. He did not understand why his father had to go to Heaven. He did not understand why he had not said goodbye to Steve before he had had to go. He did not understand.

"It's just you and me now," said his mother, her hand cupping his cheek. "But you don't have to be scared. I'll be Mommy  _and_ Daddy from now on."

Steve leapt off the sofa as if burned by her touch, taken by a sudden, unexpected bout of fury.

"You're not Daddy!" he shouted. "You can't replace him!"

His mother paled, her hand flying to her mouth. She shook her head with horror.

"I didn't mean it like that," she said. "Steve–"

Steve turned on his heel and fled to his bedroom, heading straight for his wardrobe. He pulled open the door and crawled inside, pulling the door closed behind him. The sound of his shaky breathing was amplified in the confined space, but as he got used to the familiar surroundings, his pounding heart finally began to slow.

The wardrobe was his favourite place in the world. It was dark and warm and full of soft blankets. It was his nest, his secret place, a place he felt safe. He strained his ears, listening out for any sign of his mother following him.

Silence.

Tugging his knees up to his chest, Steve closed his eyes and tried to make sense of his racing thoughts. Thoughts of his father flitted across his mind, as bright and vivid as if they were real.

He remembered kissing him goodbye that morning before going to school, stubble scratching at Steve's cheek. He remembered the previous evening when they had looked out of the window together and counted the cars as they passed by in the street below. He remembered the patient way he would always help Steve with his homework.

Steve was not sure how long he sat there in the darkness of his wardrobe, remembering, but after what felt like a very long time, in which his bum started to ache from being sat on for too long and his tummy started to feel hungry, he heard the front door open, followed by the sound of voices.

The elephant immediately returned, settling on his chest and swallowing his voice. He held his breath, straining his ears to try to decipher who had entered the flat and what they were saying. It was impossible to tell – the sounds were muffled, too far away to be audible. He listened as someone walked down the corridor towards his room, freezing with fear as the footsteps stopped outside his bedroom door, before walking in.

There was a moment's silence as the unknown person came to a stop in the middle of Steve's room, just feet away on the other side of the wardrobe door. Then, a familiar voice spoke into the silence.

"Steve?" said Bucky.

Steve let out a sigh of relief, knocking lightly on the inside of the wardrobe door to alert Bucky to his whereabouts.

Bucky opened the wardrobe door, climbing inside and pulling the door closed behind him. A sliver of light illuminated them through a small crack in the door, allowing Bucky to sit down without accidentally sitting on Steve. It was a bit of a squeeze, both of them sitting together in the nest of blankets. Steve ended up squashed against Bucky's chest, but he did not mind – being with Bucky made him feel safe.

With a sad sigh, he rested his head on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky immediately slung an arm around Steve's shoulders, the other hand finding Steve's in the dark and doing their secret handshake. They sat in silence for a long while, the mood quiet and sombre. After a long while, Bucky spoke softly into the semi-darkness.

"Your mom said your dad went to Heaven."

Steve nodded, his throat swelling up with emotion as tears began to leak down his cheeks. Bucky watched him in the dim light from the crack in the wardrobe, his expression sad.

"I'm sorry," said Bucky.

Steve buried his face in Bucky's chest to hide his tears, his hands balling into little fists as he tried to stop himself from crying. He was getting tears and snot on Bucky's t-shirt, making it all gross, but Bucky did not seem to mind. He put an arm around Steve's shoulders protectively, letting Steve sniffle against his chest. After a while, the tears began to slow, the pain making way for a strange feeling of tiredness and numbness.

"You can share my dad, if you want," Bucky said suddenly. "He's not the same, but he's a good dad too."

The offer was so silly, yet so genuine, that it caught Steve by surprise, startling a little laugh out of him. He smiled gratefully, finding Bucky's hand and squeezing it briefly. He wanted to say thank you. He licked his lips, swallowing hard as he tried to force the words passed his lips, but no matter how hard he tried, the elephant would not budge from his chest. After about a minute of struggling, Steve sighed and gave up, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

Making sure that Bucky could see him in the dim light, he signed:  _thank you_.

 

* * *

 

Around one month later, Steve entered the kitchen to find his mother sat at the kitchen table, looking stressed.

He hopped onto a chair beside her, snuggling against her side. She ruffled his hair, dropping a quick kiss on his forehead. From his new vantage point, Steve could see that his mother had a jar of money by her elbow, as well as a sheet of paper covered in numbers in front of her.

"What are you doing, Mommy?" he asked.

His mother turned her attention back to the sheet of paper in front of her, the stressed expression returning to her face as she took in the numbers.

"Looking at our finances," she said.

Steve leaned forwards, trying to work out the complicated-looking sums on the paper.

"What's  _finances_?" he asked, the new word feeling clunky on his tongue.

His mother sighed, putting down her pencil and rubbing at her temples. She closed her eyes, taking several calming breaths before replying.

"Now that Daddy's gone, we don't have as much money coming in," she explained. "I already work at the newsstand during the week, but I'm going to have to get a Saturday job to make ends meet. And I was wondering," she paused, looking tentative, "I was wondering how you'd feel about doing a part-time job as well. My boss is looking for newsboys to deliver papers and generally help out."

Steve blinked up at her in surprise.

"A job?" he asked.

His mother nodded.

"You'd work for about an hour in the mornings delivering papers before you go to school, and a half-day on Saturdays at the newsstand as well," she said. She took hold of his hands, squeezing them gently. "I know you don't like meeting new people, but it would really help us with money. We don't– we don't have enough to get by at the moment."

They lapsed into silence. Steve chewed on his lower lip, thinking about it. He hated meeting new people. It made the elephant trample all over him and made him feel shaky and scared. He hated the weird way people looked at him when they realised he could not speak. He did not want to interact with new people, if it were at all possible.

But he knew his mother would not ask him to get a job unless it was absolutely necessary. She knew only too well about his Selective Mutism, and much though she wanted him to start speaking, she would never try to force him. The finances, whatever that meant, must be quite bad if she had decided to turn to Steve for help.

Steve looked down at the sheet of paper on the table and wondered what his father would say. He pictured his father's face – serious but friendly, with Steve's same blue eyes. The answer came to him as easily as breathing. He had no doubt what his father would say: he would want Steve to step up and help his mother. He would want Steve to do his bit and be a good son.

Wrapping his arms around his mother, Steve looked up at her and smiled, his heart leaping with joy when he saw her smile back in return.

"I'll be the best newsboy ever, Mommy."

 

* * *

 

The following weekend, Steve met his new boss.

He clung to his mother's hand as she led him to the newsstand, sticking close to her side as shoppers bustled around them. The newsstand was located several blocks away from their flat, on a high street populated with small businesses set up by locals. As well as the newsstand, there was also a butchers, a cobblers, a second-hand clothes shop and a bookstore. Steve absorbed the sights and sounds with wide eyes as they finally stopped outside the newsstand.

The store front was small and in need of a lick of paint, but what drew Steve's attention was the beautiful sign propped up against the window. It was a very distinctive sign, made out of porcelain and hand-painted. The words  _Fisher's News_  were written in slanted, curly script, and along the outside were dozens of brightly coloured fish, each individually painted in great detail. Steve reached out to admire the sign, running his fingers along the smooth porcelain with delight.

His mother tugged him gently by the hand, pulling him towards the entrance. Steve switched his attention to the door, peering in through the glass pane to the inside of the newsstand. His mother pushed open the door, setting off a bell that jingled cheerfully as they stepped into the store.

Steve looked around him in awe, taking in the way the neatly stacked newspapers, stationery and postage paraphernalia all fitted into the cramped space. They walked up to the counter, where an old man was sitting on a stool.

The man had unruly white hair that stood up in all directions and huge, bushy eyebrows that looked like they had been electrocuted. His face was lined in a way that revealed a lifetime of smiling and behind his large glasses were a pair of warm, friendly brown eyes. Those eyes were presently peering over the counter to look down inquisitively at Steve.

Steve smiled nervously up at him.

"So, this is the strapping young man who wants to be a newsboy?" said the news vendor, giving him a wide grin in return.

"Yes, he is," said Steve's mother.

"Can he read?" asked the news vendor.

"Yes," said Steve's mother proudly. "He's the best in his class at reading."

The old man shot her a funny look, before leaning over the counter to peer more closely at Steve through his thick glasses. He gave Steve a cheerful wave, which Steve returned shyly.

"Can he speak?" asked the old man.

Both adults turned to look at Steve. Steve stared back at them, rooted to the spot as he felt his cheeks redden with a blush. Hiding his trembling hands behind his back, he mustered up his courage, trying with all his might to open his mouth and reply. His heart thundered against his ribcage, his breath caught in his lungs as the elephant settled back in its familiar place on his chest. His lower lip began to tremble, his eyes filling with tears as the words he wanted to say so desperately would not come.

"No," sighed his mother, unable to hide her disappointment. "He can't speak. Not to anyone but me."

Steve bowed his head in shame, hating that he had let down his mother in front of the news vendor. He hated the elephant on his chest; he hated it with a passion. He had blown his chances of getting the job, for sure. He was preparing himself for rejection when the old man said something he never would have expected.

"That's OK," said the old man, smiling. "You don't need to speak to do this job anyway."

The old man got off his stool and shuffled around the counter, stopping in front of Steve and bending down to shake his hand. Steve took his hand with amazement, shaking it.

"My name is Mr. Fisher," said the old man. "This is my shop. Your mom works here during the week. You must be this Steve she's always talking about. She's only said the good stuff," he added with a wink.

Steve giggled. He liked Mr. Fisher. He had a soft, friendly voice and a kind face.

From his back pocket, Mr. Fisher pulled a piece of paper. He handed it to Steve, who looked down and read what was written. There were about 30 addresses, all within a 1-mile radius of the newsstand.

"Your job is to deliver  _The Daily Bugle_  newspaper to all these addresses, every weekday morning before you go to school," explained Mr. Fisher. "On Saturday mornings, you can help out with things in the shop too, like fetching and carrying things for me, and putting stickers on things. We could even get you to sell newspapers outside, if we make a little sign saying the price that you can wear around your neck. Does that sound good?"

Steve nodded enthusiastically. Mr. Fisher seemed a nice man, and it sounded like a good job, one that he could easily do despite his muteness. He was looking forward to being able to help his mother with their money situation.

"Good boy," said Mr. Fisher, ruffling his hair. "You start on Monday."

Without thinking, Steve signed _thank you_ , forgetting momentarily that Mr. Fisher did not know sign language. To his amazement, Mr. Fisher gave him a wide grin and signed back:  _you're welcome_.

For a moment, Steve stared at him in shock, before a delighted smile spread across his face, his insides flipping with excitement as he realised that he would be able to communicate with Mr. Fisher.

"I have a deaf granddaughter," explained Mr. Fisher. "She can't talk with words, but we talk with our hands."

Steve stared up at him in astonishment. Apart from the people who had learnt to sign specifically to communicate with him – Bucky, Bucky's parents, the special needs worker at his school – he had never met someone who knew how to sign. That he would be able to communicate with Mr. Fisher without the aid of a pencil and paper was an exciting prospect.

"Why don't you have a look around, familiarise yourself with the place?" said Mr. Fisher. "There's a backroom through the door behind the counter as well. Have a look around there and get to know where everything is."

Steve nodded, scampering off behind the counter. The adults began talking between themselves, their hushed words floating through the air as Steve began to explore the backroom.

"Thank you for this, Frank. It means a lot."

"No problem, he seems like a nice kid. I'm sorry I can't offer you any more hours. I've heard the cobblers is looking for a Saturday girl, if you're still looking."

"I'll check it out. Any more news on the robber?"

"He stole a whole week's worth of earnings from the bookstore last Friday. The cops still have no idea who's behind it..."

Steve moved out of earshot, not particularly listening to their conversation. As he rounded a precarious pile of boxes and looked around the storeroom, a bubble of happiness swelled in his chest.

He had a job. He was helping his mother with money.

His chest ached in a way that was both happy and sad as one thought overrode all others, filling his mind: his father would be proud of him.

 

* * *

 

For the next month, Steve worked as a newsboy and general helper at Fisher's News. He would deliver  _The Daily Bugle_  to 32 addresses before going to school, and on Saturday mornings he would help out at the shop, carrying out any little jobs that Mr. Fisher requested.

The two of them had developed a strong bond. They communicated using sign language and, much to Steve's relief, Mr. Fisher never put any pressure on Steve to speak out loud.

Best of all, his mother said that the extra money Steve was bringing in was really helping them make ends meet.

It was one Saturday afternoon, when Steve was painting in his bedroom after spending the morning at the newsstand, when there was a knock at the door, followed by a familiar voice. Despite the elephant that immediately settled on his chest, Steve smiled as he set down his paint brush, getting up and running to the front door.

Bucky was standing there with a fistful of daisies and dandelions, grinning up at his mother.

"These are for you and Steve!" he said. "I picked them myself."

His mother took the flowers with amused delight, ruffling Bucky's hair.

"Thanks Bucky, that's very kind," she said. "I'll put them in some water."

Bucky nodded, before catching sight of Steve, his smile widening even further as Steve waved enthusiastically.

"Please can I play with Steve?" begged Bucky.

Steve's mother laughed, pulling the door open wider to let him in.

"You're always welcome here, you know that," she said.

Bucky bounded into the flat, skidding to a halt in front of Steve as he held out his hand for their secret handshake.

"Hey Steve!" said Bucky, their fingers and thumbs completing their complicated ritual.

Steve smiled in response, as excited as ever to see his best friend.

"My mom said she saw you working at Fisher's News this morning!" said Bucky. "How come you didn't tell me you'd got a job?"

Steve cringed internally. He had not deliberately been keeping the information secret, he had simply not wanted to make a fuss about the fact that they were struggling for money. He shrugged, hoping that Bucky would not take offence at having been kept in the dark.

 _I forgot_ , he signed.  _Sorry._

Bucky smiled and waved aside his apology.

"It's really swell that you have a job," said Bucky, sounding impressed. "Me and my parents and sisters are going to go there next Saturday to see you working."

Steve giggled, surprised and touched by Bucky's excitement. Bucky's expression suddenly became more serious. Casting a sneaky glance at Steve's mother to make sure she was not listening, Bucky leaned in and whispered in Steve's ear.

"Have you seen the robber yet?"

Steve's eyes widened in surprise. He shook his head, beckoning Bucky to follow him down the hall to his bedroom so they could discuss it in more privacy. They ran to Steve's room, shutting the door behind them. Steve opened up the wardrobe and sat down amongst the blankets, enjoying their softness. Bucky climbed in beside him, letting his legs hang outside the wardrobe to give them more room.

 _What robber?_ signed Steve.

Bucky's face lit up with excitement. He made a great show of looking around to make sure they were alone, before leaning in with the air of someone about to reveal the juiciest secret imaginable.

"There's a robber on the loose," said Bucky, in a conspiratorial whisper. "I overheard my parents talking about him. He's been stealing money from shops down the street where you work – sometimes at night, sometimes in broad daylight. Apparently, he's got a gun! Have you seen him?"

Steve shook his head with astonishment, shocked that there could be a robber so close to where he lived and worked. It made him feel both angry and on edge. Bucky looked disappointed by Steve's response.

"Still, we should both look out for anyone who looks like a robber," urged Bucky.

Steve nodded, cocking his head to the side as he pondered how they would identify the robber out of all the hundreds of thousands of people out there in New York City.

 _What does a robber look like?_ he signed.

Bucky looked confident as he answered the question.

"They wear clothes with black and white stripes, and a black mask over their eyes," he said. "And they walk on tiptoe."

Steve frowned, unconvinced.

 _That's just in cartoons_ , he signed.

Bucky shook his head stubbornly.

"Nuh-uh," he retorted. "It's like that in real life too."

Steve reluctantly accepted Bucky's statement. Bucky was older, after all, and his father had always said that with age came wisdom. Bucky suddenly jumped up with a grin, holding out a hand to pull Steve to his feet. Steve scrambled up, looking at him questioningly.

"Let's go outside and practice catching the robber!" said Bucky.

Steve's face lit up with excitement. He nodded eagerly and followed Bucky as they ran from Steve's bedroom, pausing briefly in the lounge where Steve's mother was reading a book.

"Please can me and Steve play outside?" asked Bucky.

She looked up from her book with a smile and a nod, gesturing for the boys to go ahead.

"Sure," she said. "Just make sure you're back before dinner time."

Bucky let out a whoop of excitement as he ran out of the flat. Steve raced after him as fast as his legs would carry him, chasing him down the stairs as they ran down to the bottom of the block of flats, before bursting out of a side door into the sunshine. Bucky immediately went into big brother mode, taking hold of Steve's hand and making sure he did not stray too close to the road as they walked around to the front of the block where there was a long, thin patch of grass that ran in front of the building.

"OK," said Bucky, letting go of Steve's hand. "Pretend I'm the robber and punch me!"

Steve concentrated, curling his little hands into fists and working himself into a fit of anger, imagining the robber was standing in front of him. With fire burning in his belly, he swung his fist out and hit Bucky in the arm, pain flaring in his hand as he made contact. To his horror, Bucky did not fall to the ground as he had expected, or indeed make any outward response to Steve's punch. With a carefree laugh, Bucky simply grabbed hold of Steve's curled fist and easily pushed it away.

"OK, good practice," joked Bucky. "Now hit me for real."

Steve stuck out his lower lip in a pout, crossing his arms and stamping his feet with frustration. He could feel anger simmering under his skin, as well as shame, that his punch had been so weak that Bucky had thought it was a joke.

 _That was as hard as I can hit_ , he signed, glaring at Bucky, whose eyes widened as he read what Steve was signing.

"Uhhh, OK," said Bucky hurriedly. "Well, you're only 7. When you're 8 like me, you'll be  _way_ stronger."

Some of the anger deflated out of Steve. He knew Bucky had not meant to upset him. The weakness of his body was simply something he was sensitive about. When they pretended to be soldiers, Steve would pretend to be Captain Rogers, who was big and strong and could do all the things that Steve himself could not.

"Hey, how about instead of punching the robber, you could throw something at him and knock him over," suggested Bucky.

Bucky looked around, spotting a round metal lid on a nearby bin. With a shout of delight, he ran over and grabbed the lid, bringing it back to Steve and presenting it like a trophy.

"Let's practice with this!" said Bucky. "Pretend the wall is the robber!"

Steve took the round metal bin lid from Bucky's hands, weighing it and then holding it in front of him like a shield. He walked forwards, before lifting the metal lid with both hands and hurling it at the wall. It bounced off the brick wall with a loud clang, rolling back in their direction. Steve clapped his hands happily – he would be much more able to take on a robber with this makeshift weapon than with punches.

Bucky gave a shout of glee, giving Steve a high five before picking up the bin lid himself and throwing it at the wall. His technique was slightly different, the projectile angled differently from Steve's attempt. Steve watched with interest at the way the lid soared through the air before hitting the wall, excitement exploding in his gut as it clanged loudly against the brick before rolling back towards them.

He tugged on Bucky's sleeve, getting his attention.

 _Let's try different techniques,_  he signed.  _See what works best._

Bucky's face lit up in response.

"Good idea!" said Bucky. "You try this time."

For the next half an hour, they tried out many different techniques, throwing it underarm, overarm, with one hand and two, at varying angles and with varying amounts of spin. They discovered that throwing it like a frisbee allowed them to throw it the furthest distance and with the greatest amount of control. Steve was actually quite good at the technique, often hitting their target (an old blob of paint on the wall) with more accuracy than Bucky.

He had just hurled the lid at the wall when a shout suddenly came from above.

"What's that racket?! You've woken up my cats, you little scamps!"

Steve looked upwards, catching sight of Mrs. Miller – the old lady who lived next door who smelt like cabbage – leaning out of the window and glaring down at them ferociously. He hid behind Bucky, crouching down behind the larger boy.

"Barnes? James Barnes? Is that you?! I'll tell your mother about you!" yelled Mrs. Miller, slamming the window shut with a bang.

Steve's giggles intensified as Bucky whirled around and stared at him in shock.

"I can't believe you hid behind me, you little crapbag!" said Bucky, sounding outraged, before giggling and grabbing Steve by the hand. "Come on, let's hide before my mom comes down!"

The boys fled down the street laughing, all thoughts of the robber evaporating as they raced to avoid an even greater threat: the wrath of their own mothers.

 

* * *

 

The next Saturday, Steve was sitting in the backroom of the newsstand, putting pricing stickers onto packets of envelopes.

He liked the backroom. It was full of interesting things: not just items for the shop but also items that Mr. Fisher had collected over the years. There were jigsaws and toys that his granddaughter had grown out of, but Steve loved to play with. There were interesting maps of the world, piles of books, and cans of paint and large canvases which Mr. Fisher used in his spare time as a painter.

Steve was sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the dusty floor, putting the final sticker on a packet of envelopes, when the sound of something shattering nearby caused him to almost fall off the cushion in shock. From inside the shop, there came shouts. One voice was angry. The other – old Mr. Fisher's – sounded afraid.

Steve scrambled to his feet, running across the backroom and bursting into the shop, skidding to a halt as he absorbed the scene in front of him. Mr. Fisher was sprawled on the floor, his glasses knocked off his face and his eyes screwed shut in pain as he clutched at the back of his head. Blood leaked through his fingers. By the cash register was a muscular young man with dark hair and brown eyes. One hand was grabbing fistfuls of notes from the cash register and stuffing them into a bag. In the other hand was a gun.

Steve stared at the robber in shock, his mind reeling. His first, ridiculous thought was that Bucky was wrong: the robber was not wearing stripy clothes or a mask over his eyes. He simply looked like an ordinary man, not some comic book character or caricature. The man caught sight of Steve and raised his gun, pointing it at Steve's chest.

"Don't move, kid," said the robber, "or I'll shoot."

Steve watched helplessly as the robber emptied the last of Mr. Fisher's money into a bag and buttoned it up, slinging it over his back. Still pointing the gun at Steve's chest, the robber vaulted over the counter and backed out of the door, before hiding the still-cocked gun under his jacket and walking calmly away.

Steve immediately rushed to Mr. Fisher's side, dropping to his knees and staring at the blood dripping from the back of his head with fright.

"Go next door," wheezed Mr. Fisher. "Get a grown up to call for the police and an ambulance."

Steve nodded, running out of the shop and out into the bright sunlight. He turned left to go next door, before freezing. Still within sight was the robber, walking calmly away from the scene, blending in with the other pedestrians. Steve knew that Mr. Fisher's hard-earned money was stuffed in the bag slung over his back.

Anger flared in his chest, drowning out his fear. His hands balled into fists by his sides, his body practically vibrating with rage. Steve stood rooted to the spot, some mad instinct overcoming him, fuelled by an outraged sense of justice. How dare the robber attack defenceless old Mr. Fisher? How dare he steal money that was not his? Steve's pent-up emotions reached boiling point, before bubbling over, snapping him out of his paralysis.

Outside the newsstand was a round metal bin, reminding him instantly of the one outside his block of flats. Without thinking, he grabbed hold of the round lid and planted his feet wide apart, drawing on his muscle memory as he hurled the lid as hard as he could towards the robber, throwing it like a frisbee.

The projectile soared through the air, spinning gracefully as it flew towards its target. It hit the back of the robber's head with a metallic thud, sending him sprawling to the floor with a shout of pain, his gun tumbling out of his hand and clattering on the pavement.

Steve watched, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, as the Barnes family rounded the corner – coming, as promised, to visit Steve at his place of work. Steve stared at them in shock, time seeming to slow down as the robber sat up and groped clumsily for his gun, obviously disoriented by his blow to the head. Fear exploded in Steve's chest, the idea of the Barnes family being in danger catapulting him into action.

He sprinted forwards, waving his arms wildly to grab the Barnes family's attention. They looked at him with confusion, bewildered as to what was going on.

 _Robber_ , signed Steve desperately, pointing at the man on the ground.  _He's the robber!_

Bucky's eyes widened with comprehension, looking down at the thief with an expression of shock.

"He's the robber!" shouted Bucky.

Mrs. Barnes immediately yanked her children away from the man, her eyes widening as she spotted something that the rest of her family had not.

"He's got a gun!" she shouted.

Mr. Barnes charged forwards, tackling the robber to the ground. They began to scuffle, fists flying and legs kicking, but the robber was still stunned by the blow to his head and was soon pinned down under the weight of Bucky's father. With his foot, he kicked the gun out of the robber's reach, the weapon skittering away across the pavement.

"Call the cops," said Mr. Barnes.

By now, a small crowd had formed around them. The shopkeeper from the bookstore ran off to make the call, the rest of the crowd breaking out into flustered conversation as they jostled to catch a glimpse of the robber who had terrorised the street.

Steve squeezed his way through the crowd, making it to the Barnes family and tugging urgently on Bucky's arm.

 _Mr. Fisher is hurt_ , he signed.

Bucky immediately turned to his parents, translating Steve's message into spoken English.

"We need an ambulance too!" shouted Mrs. Barnes, before turning to Steve. "Honey, I'm a nurse. Take me to Mr. Fisher."

Steve turned on his heel and pushed back through the crowd, leading the way back to the newsstand. They burst in through the door, the bell jingling as they ran to Mr. Fisher, who was now sitting up. The wound on his head was still bleeding, but less so than before. He looked dangerously pale, however, his eyes glazed over as he blinked slowly.

"I banged my head," said Mr. Fisher as Mrs. Barnes began examining him. "That scumbag robber pushed me over."

Bucky ushered Steve and his younger sisters to the side to give his mother space to examine Mr. Fisher. Steve peeked out from behind Bucky, concerned for the old man who was as much a friend as a boss.

"An ambulance is coming," said Mrs. Barnes soothingly. "It won't be long now."

Mr. Fisher began to sob, seemingly more upset about the state of his shop than his own physical well-being.

"He smashed my beautiful porcelain shop sign," he wailed. "I painted that sign 50 years ago with my kids. All those beautiful painted fish, ruined forever! And the cops are going to take my money as evidence for the robber's damn trial. I can't afford that – I've got bills and wages to pay!"

He was becoming visibly agitated, tears slipping down his cheeks as his face flushed red. Mrs. Barnes held his hand as the wail of sirens slowly became louder and louder. Steve watched as paramedics rushed into the shop, hauling Mr. Fisher onto a stretcher. As the entourage passed by Steve, Mr. Fisher dropped the keys for the shop into Steve's hands.

"Lock up for me," he said, his eyes clear and lucid despite the paleness of his face.

Steve nodded, clutching the keys to his chest as Mr. Fisher was whisked into the ambulance and driven away. Now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off, he felt scared and worried about Mr. Fisher's well-being. From outside, Steve could hear the sound of the robber shouting obscenities as he slowly recovered from his blow to the head. Mrs. Barnes gathered together her three daughters, the youngest of whom was beginning to cry.

"I'm taking the girls home," she said, looking stressed. "Can I leave you two to lock up and walk home by yourselves? Bucky, you're the eldest so you're in charge – hold Steve's hand and make sure you look both ways before crossing the roads."

"Sure, mom," said Bucky.

Mrs. Barnes gave her son a kiss on the forehead before hurrying from the shop, ushering her three youngest children away from the scene of the commotion. Steve and Bucky stood in silence for a moment, both of them reeling from the shocking turn of events.

 _Will Mr. Fisher be alright?_  signed Steve anxiously.

Bucky pulled Steve into a hug, wrapping his arms around him tightly. Steve clung back. What he really wanted was a hug from his mother, but in her absence, Bucky was an acceptable substitute.

"Mr. Fisher's going to be fine," said Bucky. "Please don't cry."

Steve closed his eyes and took several deep gulps of air, composing himself and swallowing back his tears. When he re-opened them, he caught sight of the shattered porcelain sign, smashed to pieces on the pavement outside. A lump formed in his throat as he remembered how beautiful the sign had been: the slanted, loopy handwriting; the colourful fish swimming around the border.

"I wish we could do something to help Mr. Fisher," said Bucky wistfully.

Steve nodded sadly, before biting his lip, determination rising in his chest as he stared at the shattered sign. Could Steve and Bucky do something to help Mr. Fisher? The old man had lost his beloved porcelain shop sign and a week's worth of earnings. Excitement spurted through him as he remembered something he had noticed in the backroom earlier: the canvases and paints.

Grabbing Bucky by the hand, he pulled his friend into the backroom, running over to the art supplies and pointing at them excitedly.

"You want to make a new shop sign for Mr. Fisher?" said Bucky, his face lighting up with a joyous smile as he caught onto Steve's idea. "Yes! And I'll sell the remaining newspapers to try to make him some money!"

Steve nodded, his chest swelling with hope that perhaps he and Bucky could help poor Mr. Fisher after all. He closed his eyes, conjuring up the memory of the old porcelain sign – deep blues, vivid oranges and reds, bright yellows and vibrant greens. Feeling empowered, he opened them again, gathering together all the paints he would need to re-create the sign.

Bucky ruffled Steve's hair, before running out into the shop, gathering up newspapers to sell.

"I'll be standing just outside the shop, OK?" called Bucky. "Just come out if you need me."

Steve nodded, smiling to himself as he pulled out a large blank canvas and set it down gently on the floor. He was fairly sure he could re-create the sign, or at least create a worthy approximation of it, with the paints available. Art was one of Steve's favourite classes at school, and his teacher frequently praised him for his natural artistic talent. He hoped he would be able to create something that Mr. Fisher would like.

Settling down onto his cushion, he picked up a pencil and lightly began to sketch out the sloped, cursive lettering onto the canvas. He quickly became absorbed in the task, pencilling out the design in careful detail before eventually starting with the paint. He applied the colour to the canvas in a state of quiet joy, at once calm and concentrating yet also excited to be able to do something good for Mr. Fisher.

By the time he was finishing off the final fish swimming around the edge of the design, it was almost two hours later, his fingers smeared with colourful paint. He got to his feet, taking a step back to appraise his efforts. The sign looked slightly different from the porcelain original – more colourful and a bit more wonky – but Steve hoped that it would do. Propping it up against the wall to dry, Steve walked through into the shop and then outside.

Bucky was standing outside the store, waving one final newspaper above his head as he yelled cheerfully at the passers-by.

"Just one left! Buy  _The Daily Bugle_  and show your support for old Mr. Fisher!"

A young woman paused, digging money out of her purse and dropping it into Bucky's money tin as she bought the last newspaper. Bucky let out a whoop and jumped on the spot, before turning around and spotting Steve, his face splitting into a wide grin as he saw his friend. He ran over to Steve and pulled open the money tin, showing Steve how much money he had been able to make selling the newspapers.

Steve stared down in shock. The tin was full, not just with coins but with notes as well. There was far more money than could have been expected based simply on the price of the newspapers. This looked more like one week's earnings, rather than one day's.

"I told people that the robber attacked Mr. Fisher and that the cops had to take his money for evidence," explained Bucky. "Folks were very generous."

Steve's heart leapt with happiness. He wrapped his arms around Bucky and gave him a tight hug. For Bucky to have done this, even though he did not know Mr. Fisher personally, was incredibly kind. He let go of his friend, beaming up at him.

 _Thank you_ , he signed.  _Mr. Fisher is going to love this._

 

* * *

 

The following Saturday, Steve was sat in the backroom of the newsstand, sticking pricing labels onto stock. Bucky was sitting next to him, passing him the items that needed labelling and talking excitedly about how his cat was expecting kittens. Bucky was explaining his theory of how babies were made when Mr. Fisher hobbled into the room, two small cups of apple juice clutched in his hands.

"Refreshments for my best workers," he said with a smile, putting down the cups in front of them.

"Thanks, Mr. Fisher!" said Bucky, immediately slurping down his juice with gusto.

Steve smiled and sipped his juice more slowly, enjoying the flavour as he looked up at his boss. Mr. Fisher was looking well. He had been discharged from the hospital on Wednesday evening, once the hospital staff were finally satisfied that his concussion had gone. Much to the boys' disappointment, he did not have a cool scar to show off; unfortunately, it was completely hidden underneath his thick white hair.

Mr. Fisher had returned straight back to work on Thursday, thrilled beyond measure to discover what Steve and Bucky had done for him after he had been whisked away in the ambulance – so thrilled, in fact, that he had offered Bucky a Saturday job as a general helper. The new shop sign that Steve had painted was displayed in pride of place in the front window, and Mr. Fisher was telling anyone who would listen about his heroic newsboy who had helped capture the wicked robber.

Mr. Fisher patiently waited for both boys to finish their juice before taking the empty cups and giving Steve a mischievous smile.

"Follow me, Steve," he said. "There's a surprise waiting outside for you."

Steve's eyebrows shot up in surprise as he clambered to his feet. He trotted after Mr. Fisher as he walked them out of the backroom and through the shop, Bucky following close behind. They emerged onto the pavement to find two smartly-dressed women waiting for them – one of them clutching a camera, the other a notepad and a fountain pen. Steve looked up at Mr. Fisher, confused.

"These are Lizzie and Alison from  _The Daily Bugle_ ," explained Mr. Fisher. "They heard what happened last weekend and they want to write an article about you."

Steve ducked his head, immediately embarrassed by the attention. He hid behind Mr. Fisher, looking up at the women shyly. He was torn between surprise that his story warranted attention and a cautious sense of excitement.

Lizzie – the woman holding a notepad – bent down and smiled gently at Steve, holding out a hand for him to shake. Steve looked up her and Alison curiously, noting their kind faces and warm smiles. Feeling bold, he smiled back and shook Lizzie's hand, giggling when Alison gave him a high five.

"The word is that you're the hero who caught the robber," said Lizzie, her eyes twinkling. "The cops have identified him as a member of the criminal gang Hydra – a real nasty piece of work. Well done, Steve!"

Steve grinned back, puffing up his chest proudly.

"So, what happened?" asked Alison. "Everyone's desperate to learn more!"

The two women looked at him expectantly, beaming at him as they waited for him to speak. Steve took several deep breaths, trying with all his might to shift the elephant sitting squarely on his chest. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to move his vocal chords and make a sound – any sound. The elephant refused to move, gobbling up his words greedily. Steve choked out a cough, feeling bitterly disappointed as he opened his eyes to see the two journalists looking down at him with confusion. 

"What's wrong with him?" Lizzie asked Mr. Fisher, sounding concerned.

_Uh oh._

Quick as a flash, at those four words that he hated so much, Bucky stepped forwards angrily. He wrapped a protective arm around Steve's shoulders, his face flushed red as he faced up to the journalists.

"There's nothing  _wrong_ with him," said Bucky hotly. "He has Selective Mutism, but  _so what?_  He's a superhero. I wish I was as brave as Steve! He's proof that actions speak louder than words."

Bucky was vibrating with protective anger, keeping an arm wrapped tightly around Steve's shoulders whilst pivoting them so that his bulk was in front of Steve, as if to physically shield him from the journalists' judgement.

Steve felt a surge of thankfulness for Bucky. He was a good friend; loyal to a fault. Sometimes, though, his protective instincts could get the better of him. With a smile, Steve wiggled free from his grasp, putting a hand on his arm to draw his attention.

 _It's OK_ , Steve signed.  _They weren't being nasty. Will you be my interpreter?_

Bucky blinked in surprise, before smiling back and nodding.

"I'll be Steve's interpreter," said Bucky, looking up at Lizzie and Alison, slightly abashed at having snapped at them.

The journalists exchanged smiles, visibly charmed by Bucky's protectiveness over Steve.

"Thank you," said Lizzie, her pen hovering above her notepad. "Steve, can you tell us what happened last weekend? How did you feel? Were you scared?"

Steve turned to Bucky and began to sign, starting at the beginning when he had heard the almighty crash of the old porcelain shop sign smashing on the pavement outside. He quickly became absorbed in the story, his fingers fluttering quickly as he gave a blow by blow account of what happened next. Bucky translated as Steve signed, telling the journalists what Steve was saying and occasionally acting bits out enthusiastically.

By the time Steve came to the end, Bucky was slightly out of breath. Lizzie and Alison stared down at Steve with amazement, something that immediately had Steve blushing and staring down at his feet. Lizzie stuffed her notepad, which was now full of cramped scribbles of Steve's account, and knelt down in front of him, putting a finger under his chin to make him look up.

"You're a very brave boy, Steve," said Lizzie. "You're a hero."

Steve grinned, giggling when Bucky nodded along vigorously.

"Steve, Mr. Fisher," said Alison. "I was wondering if we could take some pictures for the article?"

They nodded, allowing Alison to position them where she wanted them. Steve held Mr. Fisher's hand as they stood proudly in front of the newsstand, grinning for the camera on her command. Struck by a sudden jolt of inspiration, Steve ran over to the bin and grabbed the round lid, running back to Mr. Fisher and posing with the lid held in front of him. Alison laughed as she took several more photographs, before the journalists shook hands with them once more, thanked them for their time, and walked away.

Steve waved at them as they left, before beaming up at Mr. Fisher. The old man smiled back down at him, ruffling his hair affectionately.

"How about you boys go home early today?" said Mr. Fisher. "Full pay. You've earned it."

Steve and Bucky exchanged looks of surprise, before grinning and thanking Mr. Fisher. Bucky dutifully took Steve's hand as they walked back to their block of flats – he took his responsibility as the older friend very seriously. Bucky talked excitedly about Steve's photoshoot and the article, asking if Steve could reserve a copy of the newspaper for the Barnes family when the story eventually got published.

By the time they finally arrived back at the block of flats, the (admittedly one-sided, since Steve could not sign as Bucky was holding one of his hands) conversation had evolved into Bucky listing all of the different types of foods he thought could go with chocolate – a list which, for some reason, included fish.

They entered the Rogers' flat, walking into the kitchen to find both their mothers sitting and chatting at the kitchen table. Upon their sons entering the room, they smiled and pulled out seats for them to sit on.

"Do you boys want grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch?" asked Steve's mother, her eyes twinkling.

Steve nodded excitedly as Bucky punched the air. Grilled cheese sandwiches were their favourite food. Steve waved to get his mother's attention, the elephant on his chest refusing to move, even though he was in his own home, because Bucky and Mrs. Barnes were present.

 _Mommy_ , signed Steve. _Two women from the newspaper came to interview me! I'll tell you all about it later!_

His mother gasped in surprise, pulling him in for a hug and kissing his head.

"The newspaper came to interview you?! That's amazing, baby!" she said.

Mrs. Barnes gave him a kind smile as his mother released him from his hug, leaning forward across the table to talk to him. Steve smiled back at her. This was the first time they had seen one another since the weekend before, and Steve was glad to see that she was looking unruffled from having had such a close encounter with the armed robber.

"Congratulations, Steve!" said Mrs. Barnes. "I've been telling all the girls at the hospital what a little hero you are. You were so brave."

"Steve is the bravest person I know!" chipped in Bucky. "Steve is as brave as a soldier!"

Steve's mother placed the grilled cheese sandwiches down in front of Steve and Bucky's places at the table. Steve licked his lips, his stomach rumbling in anticipation.

"You were very brave, Steve," his mother said gently. "Your Daddy would have been very proud of you."

The room lapsed into silence. Steve chewed on his lower lip. Now that he was thinking about it, he  _did_ feel brave. He remembered the feeling that had overcome him just before he had hurled the bin lid at the robber – that hotness in his gut, that sense of outrage that the man had dared to hurt and steal from other people and then expected to get away with it without consequences.

It had been scary, but it had been the right thing to do, and so Steve had gone through with it anyway. Perhaps that was what bravery was: not being fearless, but being frightened of something but doing it anyway.

Being frightened, for example, of speaking.

He thought about the elephant sitting on his chest. It felt lighter now – more like a baby elephant than a fully grown one. He closed his eyes, trying to draw on that same sense of courage that he had felt when stopping the armed robber. He imagined himself as someone big and strong and muscly, and pushed at the baby elephant sitting on top of his chest.

With barely a push, the elephant slipped off his chest, melting away into nothing in his mind. The air felt lighter in his lungs. His heart was no longer racing in the way it usually did. He felt free.

Opening his eyes, he cast a small smile down at his grilled cheese sandwich.

His voice only trembling slightly, he spoke: "Thanks."

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU: Thank you so much for reading this story! I hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> COMMENTS AND KUDOS: Let me know your thoughts - I love comments and kudos! :)
> 
> TUMBLR: [I'm on Tumblr!](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/). Feel free to follow/talk to me on there if you're feeling friendly or nosy!
> 
> FUTURE FICS: If you want to get an email whenever I post something new, then click on [my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle1991) and become a subscriber. This is _different_ from the Subscribe button on the top of _this_ page, which is for this story _only_ :)
> 
> OTHER STUFF I'VE WRITTEN:
> 
> [Fearless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8346310) (291,275 words) - A Black Widow origin story. Starting when Natasha was three years old and going right up to the present day, this story explores Natasha's life as a Red Room Academy student, KGB agent, SHIELD agent and finally, an Avenger.
> 
> [Steve And Bucky's Kinky Alphabet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776473) (176,544 words) - 26 chapters of explicit porn-with-plot featuring Steve and Bucky. Or: the one where JARVIS goes rogue and kidnaps the Avengers until they can sort their mental health out, and Steve and Bucky fuck a lot and fall in love.
> 
> [Time After Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16652011) (124,026 words) - Steve Rogers, Iraq war veteran and long-time loner, feels like his life is stuck in a rut. So when Natasha invites him to a masquerade party at a kink club, Steve throws caution to the wind and decides to go. There, he meets the mysterious Winter Soldier...
> 
> [Vengeance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7285612) (51,573 words) - Bucky falls from the train. Steve will do anything to take revenge on those responsible for his death - even if it means joining HYDRA.
> 
> [Secrets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14704965) (40,706 words) - Bucky is a man with a big secret: for 70 years, he was HYDRA's weapon. Nevertheless, despite his dark past, he is trying to move on with his life and has even formed a relationship with Tony. All seems to be going well, until a security breach at SHIELD threatens to expose his past.
> 
> [Love Is Blind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15366393) (14,512 words) - After a mission goes horribly wrong, Natasha is left completely blind. As SHIELD scientists desperately seek a cure, Natasha struggles to come to terms with her disability.
> 
> [At Your Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624802) (12,931 words) - Clint and Natasha lose a bet. Phil gets them to dress up and act out some of his many, many Captain America fanboy fantasies.
> 
> [I Like Cats, Too](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13646094) (10,526 words) - When the Avengers are torn apart by the split caused by the Sokovia Accords, a depressed Natasha lapses into a prolonged period of silence. Will anyone be able to help Natasha overcome her depression and mutism? Enter a very special cat named Midnight...
> 
> [Black Widow By Day, Black Kitten By Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15854061) (6,164 words) - Natasha dons her cat ears, Clint ties up his pet, and hardcore, steamy sex ensues.
> 
> [The Black Widow Ice Cream Parlour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15253527) (3,746 words) - Natasha meets one of the people whose lives she has saved, and finally gets the appreciation she deserves.
> 
> [The End Of The Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7088617) (3,433 words) - Bucky falls from the train to his assumed death. Steve has to come to terms with a world without him in it.
> 
> [Turkish Oil Wrestling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7013452) (2,620 words) - Steve and Bucky decide to have a wrestling match to settle an old score. Cue them stripping down to their pants, getting oiled up and engaging in a vigorous wrestling match that leaves them both hot and sweaty.
> 
> [So, You Like Cats?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7046986) (1,697 words) - Sam has a confession to make. It could make or break his and T'Challa's relationship. It all comes down to one question: Do you like cats?
> 
> [In Memoriam: James Buchanan Barnes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7924684) (120 words) - A grief-stricken Steve writes a poem in honour of his best friend.


End file.
